Blood Moon Rising Box Set (Books 1-6)

by Lola Taylor

  The snake roared in fury, screaming as its twin hissed, and encircled him as he fell. Elijah cursed, his feet and hands unable to find something to grab to stop his descent. The darkness was an open pit, ready to swallow him whole. Black blood and gore dripped from his claws, splattering onto his face as he tumbled.

  The snakes suddenly joined and morphed into a young woman, a White Witch, her white gown stained with blood. The fabric had been shredded, as had the flesh beneath. With tearful eyes, she begged Elijah to spare her.

  “Please…please, don’t kill me…”

  His claws abruptly changed back to fingernails as shock jolted the wolf right out of him. He stared, shaking his head. “No…no, I didn’t mean to…”

  The fear fell off her face, turning to cold malice. “Yes, you did. You enjoyed killing me.”

  “No!” he shouted. “It’s not true! I’m not a murderer! She made me do it!”

  “Liar.”

  “No… No, get back!”

  “Liar.” The girl drew closer. Her face had changed into that of Mistress Black’s.

  “Liar.”

  The face morphed again. Verika now stood before him, eyes glowing green, hair lifting around her face in a cloud of crimson. Her power snapped and crackled around her body. A dark voice chuckled, and perfectly manicured hands curled around Verika’s shoulders. Mistress Black peeked from behind Verika, whom she clasped like a doll.

  A possession.

  “Told you so,” she whispered, smiling.

  Elijah reached for Verika, swimming through the darkness. Mistress Black pulled her farther away.

  Verika! he cried out through their bond.

  Things swam in the darkness, nipping at him, leaving small bloody wounds on any piece of exposed flesh.

  Verika!

  The creatures hissed, struck. Their wispy bodies slithered around him faster, thicker, as they worked up a frenzy. The air stank of magic—and death.

  He gasped for air, choked on the reek of rotting flesh and decaying bones. God, he couldn’t breathe. He was drowning.

  Sweet sunlight broke through the darkness, warming him and chasing the writhing shadows away. They hissed, recoiling as a rush of spring air enveloped him, slowing his fall. His chest heaved as the thick tartness of magic cleared his throat, and he was able to breathe again. The darkness around him gave way to brilliant sunshine and a sky so blue it almost hurt to look at it.

  He landed on a bed of grass beneath a massive oak. Its shade dappled his face; the supple leaves rustled in the gentle breeze.

  A soft hand with delicate, feminine fingers stroked his cheek. “Sleep, beloved. I’ll keep the darkness at bay.”

  A wave of drowsiness hit him, ushering him under. He started to smile. Ah, there it was—relief. A feeling of complete and utter safety washed over him, and his tensed, battle-ready body at last relaxed.

  As his eyelids fluttered shut, he caught a glimpse of red hair and sparkling green eyes filled with eternal love.

  Verika had been awake for the past hour and a half, as soon as she’d felt her mate’s terror. She hadn’t told him about that side effect of their bond—that she could feel not only his thoughts, but also his emotions while both waking and dreaming. If he knew, she was positive he would never fall asleep again.

  When she’d first stirred, his skin had been awash in a cool sheen of sweat. His fingers were curved and twitching, as if he were in his wolf form and lashing out at some unseen monster. The instant she saw him in pain, trapped in a nightmare where she couldn’t reach him, she’d summoned a simple healing spell to help soothe him. A lot of massage therapists she knew who dabbled in the magical arts also used this very same spell to help their clients relax. She’d closed her eyes and imagined his face, imagined a gentle land of sloping green hills kissed by sunshine. In the dream, she’d summoned a soft breeze to whisk his worries and fears away, had stroked his face lovingly until he’d at last fallen asleep.

  The touch of dark magic in the dream bothered her. It would have slipped her notice if she hadn’t felt it tug at her own magic.

  Mistress Black had been there, inside her mate’s head. The possessive urge to rip her to shreds, to claw her beautiful face apart, surged up inside her as her inner wolf growled. The closer she drew to her first Change, the more wolf-like traits she displayed. Among them, catching herself staring at the swelling moon, a sharper sense of smell, hearing things from far away, much farther than the human ear could hear. It was frightening at first, she had to admit. Now, she’d overcome the scary stage and was on to the curious phase. She wondered what all she could do with her new form, if she would retain any of her magical abilities.

  And whether or not she could use said abilities to track down Mistress Black and end her before something terrible happened.

  Whatever had pulled at her own magic in the dream faded away. Unable to locate the source, Verika opened her eyes in the real world with a sigh of disappointment.

  She glanced at her mate—and smiled. Her shoulders relaxed when she saw her mate now lying at peace, a blissful smile on his face. Sometimes she would sit and watch him, struck speechless by the gorgeous man who was destined to be hers. How kind fate had been indeed.

  Her eyes roved over the hills and slopes of his chest, crowned in a patch of dark hair between his pecs. Though lax, his thick arms were corded with muscles honed from years of fighting. Scars crisscrossed his flesh, the wickedest of which slashed over his abdomen. She’d wondered where he’d gotten it, had even asked about some of the others. Brawling, mostly, or “getting some sense knocked into him,” he’d said.

  But he had yet to tell her about that large scar across his abdomen, the one that looked as though it had cut so deep he should have been dead.

  A shiver raced over her flesh, and she rubbed her arms. How close had Elijah come to greeting Death that day? How many more times would they face down the Grim Reaper before they were allowed to be together?

  If they were allowed.

  No. She wouldn’t allow herself to think such thoughts. Doing so meant giving up hope, and no way in hell was she doing that. Not now, not ever. It was the only thing she had to hold on to, the thing that kept her going. That, and Elijah’s love.

  Rising and squinting at the sunlight pouring in through the windows, she flicked her wrist. The gauze curtains instantly thickened, shutting out any hint of light and darkening the room.

  At least Elijah wouldn’t wake now. Truth was, he was probably so exhausted that the light wouldn’t have been a problem. But it had concerned her, and she couldn’t quite let go of the need to fuss over her mate.

  And, if she were honest, she’d admit she’d grown rather fond of the darkness these past few weeks. And it wasn’t just because her inner wolf was growing stronger. She’d always been drawn to the night, even as a child. For all its pretty colors and warmth, a trickle of sunlight couldn’t hold a candle to the frosty beauty of a star-swept sky awash in soft, silvery moonlight. Night had always seemed more peaceful to her—and her powers had felt stronger. Especially now that her Dark Gift had awakened, seemingly restless after years of suppression.

  But why now, after all these years?

  She nibbled her lip as she wandered over to the bathroom to draw herself a hot bath. It wasn’t that her powers were out of control. Not yet. Though if they kept growing at the pace they were, she feared she may someday be unable to contain them.

  And then who—or what—would she turn into?

  Casting aside her silk nightgown, she lowered herself into the steaming water, sinking lower and lower until it rose to her chin. The warmth burned and prickled at first, her skin was so cold. Tiny ripples raced across the water’s surface as her body trembled, fighting to warm itself. Within a few minutes, her muscles unwound and the surface stilled.

  Yet the chill—the fear she’d tried so desperately to suppress—remained rooted in her bones.

  Every witch had grown up with “ghost stories,” tales of bloo
d and death swapped over pillow fights and flashlights at slumber parties. Most spoke of the worst of their kind, those dark women and men who’d been granted powers from the devil himself. Or so the legends said.

  They destroyed towns, burned families alive in their homes while their screams and pleas filled the smoky air. Devoured children and fashioned necklaces out of their bones.

  Verika stared at the murky water. A deadweight settled in her chest.

  There was no such thing as a good Black Witch or Warlock. That’s what everyone said, what everyone believed because they’d been taught it from a young age and had probably never questioned those beliefs because they’d never met a Black Witch or Warlock. She’d met plenty of witches and warlocks of the other magical houses, and especially being a cop—or rather, ex- cop—she knew all too well that the soul of the magic depended on the heart of the user. There had been plenty of Blue, and even White, Witches and Warlocks who were as corrupt as they came. Even the gentler houses weren’t immune to defilement.

  “You always have choices,” Satine had told her. “The choice to be good or to be bad. All you have to do is decide.”

  Decide. Such a simple thing to do, and yet it held so much weight. A single choice could determine your entire future. But what Verika had wondered as she’d gorged herself on the pain and suffering of Gerard, the man who’d killed her mentor in cold blood, was whether she was really so different from him.

  She’d enjoyed it, killing him. Or rather, her magic had, but weren’t she and her powers becoming one and the same? Every night, she could feel her magic’s inky threads lazily weaving their way throughout her blood, bonding with her. Making her feel stronger, in body, mind, and soul. Her endurance, she’d noted during their woodland treks, had grown exponentially. Unnaturally so. Or rather, supernaturally. Eyesight, taste, and sound had also sharpened, though she couldn’t be sure whether that was due to her impending Change or another magical enhancement.

  She knew witches and warlocks changed when coming into their powers. With deep longing, she’d watched her childhood friends receive their gifts, come into their own, and couldn’t wait until it was at last her turn.

  But she waited and waited. Day by day, that burning hope to belong to her tribe diminished, growing smaller and smaller until she almost couldn’t remember what she’d been excited for, save for the bitter taste of disappointment that reminded her she was different.

  Oh, how right and wrong she’d been.

  Leaning forward, she stared at her reflection in the pool, at the green eyes so full of light and goodness. Elegant, mystical markings inked her neck, back, and shoulders, curving gracefully down onto her chest, where they stopped just above her breasts. Indigo whorls and delicate crescent moons accented the Celtic knots, vines, and roses scattered over her torso. Her body had changed so much. Getting out of the office had done her physique good. Her arms and legs seemed more defined, and she swore her waistline had shrunk.

  She smirked. The secret to weight loss? Running for your life. She could imagine the infomercial now: “Nothing gets you in shape like having a death threat hanging over your head!” Cue a thumbs-up flash and an overly enthusiastic grin.

  Yeah, that would probably be one fitness plan she’d never be able to sell mainstream.

  Bad ideas aside, she had changed even more. She’d sworn never to date another werewolf, and here she was mated to one.

  One who made her want to be the best damn witch, and woman, she could be.

  She knew she was good, deep, deep down—but not completely. No one was. People were varying shades of gray, some darker than others.

  You always have choices.

  “I choose to be good,” she whispered to herself. “No matter what, I’ll keep running toward the light.”

  She wasn’t sure who she was promising: herself or Satine. Either way, promises held power. Resolve. She needed that, needed the surety of that commitment burning in her soul if things went wrong.

  Which, she had a feeling, was going to happen eventually, given the circumstances.

  After lounging in the bathtub until her skin pruned, she toweled off and threw on a black silk robe she’d found in the enormous closet. She was almost afraid to put it on. The label bore the logo of some designer she’d never heard of, but it sounded fancy. The robe was thick and finely sewn, with small pockets on the front, and buttery soft. Her skin practically purred with satisfaction as the expensive material brushed over it. The cost of that single bathrobe—a freaking bathrobe, for crying out loud!—probably cost more than her entire wardrobe put together.

  Still…it was nice to wear something so pricey. Probably one of the few chances she’d get in her life to indulge in a little finery.

  Threading her fingers through her hair to untangle it, she patted off the excess water, letting it hang freely over her shoulder to air dry. She’d never been fond of hair dryers. They always seemed to make her hair extra frizzy, and God knew she could use all the help she could get taming it.

  After brushing her teeth and applying a silky, jasmine-scented moisturizer to her face that she’d found in the cabinet, she padded out to the bedroom, when a soft knock came at the door.

  Careful not to make a sound to disturb her mate, who still slumbered with a smile on his face, she opened the door—

  And went rigid all over.

  Alara Crescent blinked, but other than that there was no other sign of surprise on her lovely face.

  The two women stared at each other, the silence heavy.

  Alara recovered first. “Hello.” The word sounded strained. Cold. As if all her pretty manners had kicked in and made her attempt to be polite.

  “Hello,” Verika answered quietly.

  More silence.

  Alara’s eyes flitted past her and flicked toward the bed. “Gage is on his way. He should be here within an hour. I was coming to wake you up, but I see you’re already awake.” A pointed look to Elijah.

  “I’ll wake him up soon,” Verika promised, crossing her arms. Under that woman’s imperial stare, she felt naked.

  Alara didn’t respond, instead assessing Verika with a critical eye. As if sizing her up. She’d seen that look before, usually when one werewolf came across another.

  “Was there something I could help you with?” Verika at last asked when the silence became uncomfortable.

  Alara pursed her lips. “I don’t sense it.”

  “What?”

  “Your magic…it’s gone silent.” The subtle shudder didn’t escape Verika’s notice. “Is hiding your signature another one of your powers?”

  Truthfully, she hadn’t even realized she’d been doing anything. Which made her giddy as hell. For weeks now, she’d been focusing on masking her and Elijah’s signatures, so as to better stay hidden from other paranormals. And, namely, to stay under Mistress Black’s radar. At first, it had been hard to focus on hiding a part of herself. But with practice, it had gotten easier. Apparently to the point where Verika didn’t much have to concentrate on it.

  “I’ve been practicing,” she said lamely. She prayed her ineptitude at making conversation didn’t show too badly.

  “So I see.” Alara sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Look, we should talk. When you get dressed, come find me. I’ll be in the garden out back. There’s a pea gravel pathway off the veranda. At the fork, take a left. You’ll come across a stone angel.”

  Giving an awkward but tight smile, Alara turned and left Verika in the doorway.

  We should talk.

  Oh God. Verika didn’t need to be psychic to know what about. She was Alara’s mate’s ex-girlfriend, after all. Plus, her magic was one of the most feared in the land. Alara probably thought she was evil; maybe she’d even try to go Buffy on her.

  Your imagination is running away with you again.

  Shaking her head free of such nonsense, she shut the door, raided the closet, and two minutes later emerged wearing black leggings, a black, long-sleeved tunic top,
and…her mud-spattered, run-down boots. Realizing they were going to be in the woods for a while, she’d bought them from an outlet-mall store soon as she had the chance. Though once sleek and shiny, they were now coated in a thin layer of mud.

  No matter. An easy fix.

  With a snap of her fingers, the mud vanished.

  “Where are you going?”

  Verika turned to see her mate rising from the bed with a yawn. “Gage will be here within the hour, presumably to see us,” she said. To see you.

  Nervous energy crackled through their bond. On instinct, she sent soothing energy back to calm her mate. “Alara asked me to meet her in the garden to talk.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I think staying here and ignoring her invitation would be worse.” Kissing him, she left him to get ready, regrettably declining his offer for a joint shower, and made her way downstairs.

  The house was huge but not overly complicated in layout. She wandered until she’d found the back of the house, and said veranda Alara had spoken of, well aware of the fact eyes watched her warily and people went out of their way to avoid directly crossing paths with her. A maid spotted her, gasped, and scurried off in the opposite direction as fast as her feet would carry her. Never in her life would Verika think she’d instill that kind of terror in people. It would almost be comical, had it not been a grim reminder of how terrible her power could be.

  Two guards were posted at the doors that led to the veranda. Neither made to stop her as she swept past, though she felt their inner wolves’ hackles rise.

  And the wolf spirit inside her growled back.

  She shoved it down. She’d heard from werewolf friends that “the inner beast” could be a little dominant at times. Some people gave in to it altogether, shifting and never returning to their human forms. Which, Verika thought, didn’t sound so damn bad right now. A drama-free life… oh, if only. If the most she had to worry about were fleas, she’d just about take it.